


More Than Kin

by tinydooms



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-01-23 22:06:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12517592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinydooms/pseuds/tinydooms
Summary: Interconnected stories of Prince Adam and his staff, pre-curse.





	1. More Than Kin

**More Than Kin**

_More than kin and less than kind--William Shakespeare_

 

     The baby, when he was born, arrived on a mild September day after a night of intense labor. Beatrice Potts was not the youngest of mothers, being closer to forty than twenty and, some had said, well-past her childbearing years. But the child had come nonetheless, and without complications, and by seven o'clock in the morning, mother and baby were both resting in their rooms, the housekeeper's rooms of the Chateau de Courcy.

     “We will call him Christoper,” Mr. Potts, beaming with pride, said to Cogsworth. “After Beatrice's father.”

     “It's a fine name for such a lad,” Cogsworth said, smiling. He had known the first Christoper, a respectable butler back in England, and approved of the name.

     “He is so darling,” Plumette cooed, gazing at the baby, and Mrs. Potts smiled and put him in her arms.

     “He looks just like his mother,” Lumiere agreed, pouring out more celebratory champagne to the group.

     “Yes, red and sweaty and tired,” Mrs. Potts said with a grin, and they all chuckled.

     It was in the midst of this happy gathering, a new figure approached the door. For a long moment he stood there, clad in dark blue, snowy lace at this throat and wrists, his wig freshly powdered. Prince Adam de Courcy, only recently come out of enforced mourning for his dead father, stood in the doorway, hiding his shyness behind a mask of arrogance. He cleared his throat and the staff turned, surprise written in all of their faces.

     “Prince Adam!” Lumiere exclaimed. “How can we help you, your highness?”

     Prince Adam stepped into the room, stiff and awkward. “I've come to see the new baby.”

     As one, they all swung to look at Mrs. Potts. Prince Adam had not concerned himself in the affairs of the staff in years. He had barely seemed to acknowledge his former nanny's pregnancy, though the lady herself had noticed the small kindnesses set in her way-comfortable shoes left in her rooms, increased wages in the past months...quiet goodness that made her hope that her first boy had not become as cold-hearted as his father. Alone of the staff, Mrs. Potts believed that Adam was not irredeemable. She smiled at him and beckoned him forward.

     “If you sit down, your highness, you can hold him,” she said, taking young Christoper back from Plumette.

     Prince Adam sat down in the chair beside the bed, stiff as a board. “I just wanted to see him. It's been so long since we had any children here.”

     “We're calling him Christoper,” Mrs. Potts said, and settled the baby into Adam's arms. “Chip, for short, I think.”

     Prince Adam folded his arms around the swaddled baby, uncomfortably aware of every eye in the room on him. Young Chip, two hours old, gazed up at him with soft grey eyes. A new baby, a better child, one who would follow Lumiere around and copy his mannerisms, who would tease Cogsworth and be teased in return, who would play with Plumette's cosmetics and earn her affectionate wrath. Maybe Chapeau would teach him music, and certainly Mrs. Potts and her husband would shower their son with love and care and affection. Adam looked at the tiny new face and tried not to be jealous. How he could love this child, if he knew how to love. But Adam had closed off his heart many years ago, and it was too late to change that now.

     But the baby was well, and his mother was alive and well, which was even more important, and the staff clearly wanted to get back to their celebration. Adam looked up at Mrs. Potts and bobbed his head.

     “A fine boy,” he said, and handed Chip back to his mother. “You must be very proud. Congratulations, Mrs. Potts, Mr. Potts.”

     “Thank you, your highness,” they chorused, and Adam stood and moved towards the door.

     “You'll come again?” Mrs. Potts called after him.

     Adam hesitated in the doorway. “Perhaps,” he said, and was gone, back upstairs to the coldness of his daily life.

     It was more than any of them had hoped for from him, but Mrs. Potts smiled, and kept the memory warm in her heart.

     “He came to see you the morning you were born,” she often told Chip as he grew up, and they watched from the sidelines as the prince's life spun more and more out of control. “He looked at you and there was happiness in his eyes, if only for a moment.”

     And Chip, seeing the Prince's sadness when no one else could, dreamed of the day when he would be able to bring happiness to the man's eyes again.

 

Author's Note: Something I came up with while trying to write something else. I think that pre-curse Adam was desperate for someone to rein him in, and desperate to be loved, and that he would occasionally make overtures to the staff that wouldn't be picked up on. 

 


	2. The Boy in the Garden

 

     Snow had fallen, thick as goose feathers, all night long, until the castle and its gardens looked as though they had been spun out of pure sugar, as Chip had once seen Cuisinier do for one of the Prince's parties. There was something otherworldly about it, the usual castle sounds muted by all that snow, and the clouds hung low, promising more before long. It was the first snowfall of the season, and Chip, surveying the pristine fluff before him, couldn't wait to leap forward and make his mark.

     “Stay out of the formal gardens,” his mum said, wrapping Chip up in a thick coat and scarf, “And remember to take your boots off before you come in! If you track snow inside, you'll clean it up yourself. Now go and have a good time.”

     Chip didn't see why he had to stay out of the formal gardens, other than that they belonged to Prince Adam and Prince Adam liked to have everything beautiful. But what, Chip wondered, was the point of beautifulness if you didn't have fun? Prince Adam didn't have fun. Everything around him was cold and bleak and beautiful, and Chip sometimes wondered why no one else saw how sad the prince was. He would have liked to build the man a snowman, if he thought he could get away with it before a gardener chased him away.

     Chip tramped down to the bottom of the garden, where the flowers gave way to paths leading to the lake and the parkland. As he went, he sang to himself a song that Lumiere had taught him, about dwarves cleaning up after a dinner party and threatening to blunt the knives and bend the forks. It was a wonderfully gloomy sort of day, everything muffled by the snow, and Chip relished the crunch under his boots as he skipped. The meadow was empty and pristine, and he spent a good amount of time falling backwards into the snow, just to see how many boy-shaped holes he could make. He wished his friends from the village could come and play, but his mum never allowed them to come to the castle-Prince Adam wouldn't like it if they made too much noise and mess. So Chip threw snowballs at the bushes for a while, and finally set about making a snowman.

     It was, he decided, to be a fierce, big snowman, a snowman to frighten away the villains and protect the castle. Chip packed snow into as huge a boulder as he could make it, then set about rolling another boulder for the snowman's middle. A snowman guard with a deceptive name, he decided, something silly like Sweetpea or Marshmallow, so that the villains would think they could easily defeat him. Chip giggled, and hoisted the second snow boulder onto the first.

     “Now for a head, Marshmallow!” he said, “and then you can fight off the highwaymen and brigands! Too-roo! Here they come! En garde!”

     Chip rolled up another snowball, packing it as tight has he could. So engrossed was he that he did not notice the man on the horse ride into the meadow and pause, watching him. Chip stood up, Marshmallow's head ready to join his body. By this time, Marshmallow stood taller than Chip did. The boy looked up at him, holding the last snow boulder in his hands, wondering how he was to crown to his snow guardsman. He couldn't reach.

     “Here.” A pair of hands gloved in exquisite leather reached and took the snowball from Chip's hands. “Let me.”

     Prince Adam lifted Marshmallow's head and set it onto his neck. Chip stood at his side and stared. The prince was dressed for riding, bundled against the cold in a thick blue coat and scarf, his hat pulled low over his ears. Close up he smelled of expensive soap and lavender water and horses. He did not look haughty or proud, like he usually did, but rather interested, pleased.

     “There,” the prince said, stepping away. Marshmallow was taller than even he was. “A fine specimen, Christopher.”

     Chip grinned. “His name's Marshmallow. He's guarding the castle from ruffians.”

     Prince Adam cocked his head, a faint smile touching his lips. “Are there ruffians around, then?”

     “Not really, just imaginary ones. And my name's Chip, leastaways that's what everyone calls me. Prince Adam.” Chip bowed, remembering what his mum and Cogsworth always said, about treating the prince like a prince. But Prince Adam shook his head.

     “You needn't bow, Chip; I interrupted your game,” he said.

     “Cogsworth said I had to,” Chip replied. “He said I mustn't forget that you are the Prince de Courcy and better than me.”

     “Oh.” Prince Adam blinked, and Chip caught again the sadness that he always tried to hide. Chip didn't know why he was sad; Prince Adam had everything he wanted, even if he didn't have any friends. “Well, you'll need arms and eyes for your guard, anyway. Take some sticks and stones from the gardens, if you like.”

     “That's a good idea,” said Chip, “Only I'll go out into the park to find 'em, because I'm not allowed to take things from the garden.”

     “Oh?”

     “No, because then they won't be beautiful and you'll be,” Chip blushed, realizing what he was saying, “you'll be mad.”

     “Is that why you made your snowman here, and not in the gardens?”

     “Lumiere says we have to keep things beautiful and serene and not disturb you. They say you'll be cross if we disturb you.”

     “I suppose.” Prince Adam shifted, and Chip caught a flash of something in his bright blue eyes. He was too little to understand that it was sorrow. “I'll leave you now, then, Chip. Enjoy your game.”

     It was on the tip of Chip's tongue, as he watched the prince walk back to his horse, to invite Prince Adam to play with him. But his mum's warning, and Cogsworth's, and Lumiere's, stopped him. _Prince Adam is the prince and does not associate with servants_ , they always said. _If he comes to you while you are playing, you must stop what you're doing and ask how you can serve him_.

     Still, Chip waved at him as he mounted up. And Prince Adam, seeing, raised his hand to wave back. Then he was gone, trotting down the path and into the parkland, and Chip went back to Marshmallow, and soon enough quite forgot that Prince Adam had ever been there.

     But later that afternoon, when Chip was thawing his feet by the kitchen fire and drinking the hot chocolate with marshmallows that Plumette had made him, Cogsworth came into the kitchen and told him, in no small amount of surprise, that Prince Adam had given permission for Chip to play in the formal gardens whenever he liked, and that included building snowmen. 

     “Whatever could have made him decide that?” Plumette said, surprised. “He's such a cold hearted beast, I'm surprised he even thought of Chip.”

 _Maybe he's lonely_ , Chip thought, but the idea was so ridiculous that he ignored it. How could you be lonely when you were a prince, and had everything your heart desired?

 

 

Author's Note: I've been meaning to write this for a while and am in no way procrastinating on the next chapter of "Belle, Book, and Candle". ;-) I think I'm going to make this a series of interconnected, stand-alone stories about Adam and the staff pre-curse. I hope you'll all join me for this ride. And as ever, thanks for reading and please leave me a comment!

 

 


	3. Tea and Sympathy

 

**Tea and Sympathy**

 

     Dusk. A rich hour that fell earlier and earlier as the year spiraled towards winter. Adam, bent over his books since lunch, straightened and stretched. The clock at the southern end of the library chimed four: the end of the school day. His tutor, Monsieur Brugge, looked over at him.

     “Finished, your highness?”

     “Yes, sir.” Adam handed over the essay he had spent the last two hours working on. He knew that it could be better, but Brugge was never satisfied with Adam's work, and the boy prince had ceased to do more than was required of him.

     Brugge, looking at the paper, sniffed. “Your handwriting is sloppy, your highness. You'll write it again tomorrow, and this time you'll do it well, or I'll go to your father about it. You know how Monsieur le Prince feels about sloppiness.”

     Adam swallowed. Oh, he knew. “Yes, sir. May I be excused?”

     Brugge waved a hand. “Go.”

     Adam fled the library, glancing longingly towards the northern end. Once upon a time, his mama would have been settled there with tea and cake and a book of fairy stories, waiting for Adam to finish his lessons with Nanny Beatrice. But Mama was dead, and Nanny Beatrice was now Mrs. Potts the head housekeeper, and there was no longer tea and cake and fairy stories in the library on dusky late-autumn afternoons.

     But there was cake in the kitchen, and tea, and company. Adam knew that his father disapproved of him visiting the staff in their own domain, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. Father had darting fists and a smacking stick, but Adam was young, and he missed his nanny, and it was good to sit in the kitchen with the servants, eating cake and telling Mrs. Potts and Lumiere about his day. Seeing them eased the terrible pain of grief for his mother and let Adam breathe a little. It was so hard to breathe around Father and Brugge, who were always finding fault with him. And so Adam continued to defy his father.

     Closing the library door behind him, Adam slipped down the corridor on silent feet and slid through the hidden entrance to the service corridor, where Father never came. It was easy, then, to slope along to the kitchens, alongside the great rooms filled with courtiers. Adam rubbed his hand as he went; it ached from writing for so long. His stomach growled and he sped up. Tea and cake and company where exactly what he needed right now.

     The service corridor ended in the servants' quarters just off of the kitchen. Adam went to the kitchen door and stepped into Cuisinier's domain, warm and sweet with the scent of baking pastry. Mrs. Potts sat at the table, doing accounts in a little notebook; opposite her, Lumiere and Plumette polished silver together and gossiped. Adam smiled.

     “Hello, Nanny Beatrice!” he said. “I'm here for tea!”

     They all looked around at him, and the atmosphere in the kitchen changed. Mrs. Potts, Lumiere and Plumette traded a worried glance. Adam, about to bound into the room to join them at the table, paused in the doorway.

     “Is it your tea you're wanting, Prince Adam?” Mrs. Potts asked, standing. “You'd better ring next time, sir, and I'll bring it to you. A prince shouldn't be down in the kitchens.”

     “But I-”

     Mrs. Potts came to stand in front of him, forcing Adam to step back into the corridor, out of the kitchen's light and warmth. “Goodness me, is it four o'clock already? To think I'm late. If you go up to the library now, I'll bring a tray up to you.” And she _shut the door in his face_.

     Adam stood in the dim corridor, staring at the door. _A prince shouldn't be down in the kitchens_. But he had just had tea with them yesterday! _You'd better ring next time_. He swallowed. Banished. Did they not want him anymore? But he hadn't done anything wrong, had he? Adam turned, tears pricking at his eyes, and stumbled back upstairs to the library. Brugge was gone, thank heaven, and Adam stood by a window, looking out into the gloaming. He couldn't understand it. Why didn't they want him downstairs?

     The library door opened; Adam turned to see Lumiere carrying a tray inside. There was a teapot, a teacup, and a plate of cookies. Lumiere whisked over to the northern fireplace and set the tray down on a little table.

     “Your tea, _mon prince_ ,” he said.

     “You can join me,” Adam said, moving towards him. “There's enough for two.”

     “You are very kind,” Lumiere said, in more careful a voice than Adam had ever heard him use before. “But I must not linger. Your highness.”

     And he bowed and left the library.

     Adam stared after him, his appetite gone. What was this? Were they not speaking to him anymore?

     The tea and cookies were untouched when Plumette retrieved the tray later, and Adam was nowhere to be seen.

     At dinnertime, Adam came downstairs to attend to his father in the great drawing room. Brugge was there, as befitted a tutor, and Cogsworth stood to one side, ready should anyone need something. Adam smiled to see him.

     “Hullo, Cogsworth! Do you know, I'm learning about the War of the Roses?” For Adam knew that Cogsworth took great interest in historical battles and was always willing to talk about them.

     Cogsworth bowed, very polite. “Very good, Prince Adam.”

     And that was all. Adam stared at him, then looked around and met his father's taunting eyes. And suddenly, he knew. He knew that the Prince de Courcy had put an end to all the easiness and camaraderie that Adam loved, and Father detested.

     “Shall we go into dinner?” the Prince de Courcy swept ahead, not waiting for an answer.

     Adam swallowed, and followed after the adults. He ate everything that was placed before him that evening, but he tasted none of it. None of the servants would meet his eyes, except Chapeau, who gave him a sorrowful smile.

 _I'll_ _ **make**_ _them talk to me_ , Adam thought as Brugge and Father conversed. _I'll go to the kitchen every day until they see that I still love them. I'll_ _ **make**_ _them let me back in, no matter what he says_.

     He tried to meet Plumette's eyes as she served the fish course, but she wouldn't look at him. None of them would look at him. Adam's stomach dropped. _Please_ , he wanted to shout, _what did I do?_

     He did not realize then that he would never eat in the kitchen again.

 

 

Author's Note: Writing emotional neglect is hard. Who'd have thought it? And now I really, really want a picture of young Adam (whom I picture as the boy from the original cut "Days in the Sun") standing in the darkened corridor, listening at the door as the staff have a good time in the kitchen. Ahem. Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think in the comments!

 


	4. Wigs and Wings

 

**Wigs and Wings**

 

     “Hsst! Plumette! Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

     Plumette, dragged from sleep by a small insistent form bouncing on her's, groaned. “Adam. Go back to sleep!”

     Adam flopped down, elbows on Plumette's stomach. “I can't! I'm too awake, so we have to play!”

     “Go play by yourself.”

     Plumette gave a shove and the little prince rolled off the bed and onto the floor. Plumette pulled her blankets back around her and closed her eyes. But Adam was not to be put off. He was five years old and full of mischief, and Plumette was the closest person in age to him in the castle. He climbed back onto her bed and tapped her face.

     “I know where Nanny Beatrice hid the make-up! Do you wanna play dress up?”

     Plumette opened her eyes at that, and sat up. Mrs. Potts had been moving the make-up box around all week, trying to keep it from them. Apparently they were too little for make-up, though Plumette thought that, being ten, she was quite old enough to wear at least eye shadow. She climbed out of bed and took Adam's hand in her's.

     “We're only going to play for a while, and then it's right back to bed, all right?”

     “All right, all right, come _on_!” Adam tugged on her hand and all but dragged Plumette out of her bedroom.

     Breathless from trying not to giggle, the two children ran through the servants' wing to the kitchen and through to the larder, where baskets and trays of ingredients-eggs, beans, flour, sugar, jams and jellies, cured meats and cheeses-sat waiting for daytime use. Adam pulled Plumette to the end of the room, and pointed to a high up shelf.

     “There, it's up there! I saw her hide it!”

     What were you doing in the kitchens, Plumette wanted to ask, but she knew Prince Adam well enough by now to know that he used his tiny size to his own advantage. His forts and hiding places in the castle were legion.

     “Wait here.” Plumette ran out to the kitchen proper and came back with a chair. “Hold this steady while I climb up!”

     Adam clutched the base of the chair, watching as Plumette climbed up in her white nightdress to tease the make-up box to the edge of the shelf, and then down into her hands. For a moment she stood there, tall as an angel, grinning down at him. Then she jumped down to Adam's own level again.

     “Come on, let's go to the table and I'll light a candle.”

     They settled at the round table with the cosmetics box between them, and Plumette fetched a candelabra, lighting it from the coals in the stove. Adam wriggled in excitement. He adored make-up, loved watching his mama put it on, loved watching Chapeau powder his nose before parties, loved playing with the powdered pigments, smearing them all over his face. Mama had told him that at the King's court at Versailles, everyone wore make-up and fancy clothes, and that there were balls deep into the night, and games to be played, and yummy food to be eaten. Adam couldn't wait to grow up and see the King's court for himself.

     “Plumette, when I'm big we'll go dance at Versailles,” he said, bouncing in his chair.

     “You will,” Plumette replied. “I'm not a princess; I can't go dance at Versailles.”

     “Then I'll make you a princess!” Adam replied. “I'll tell everyone you're Princess Plumette. You're pretty and no one will know that you aren't.”

     Plumette laughed. She dipped her brush in iridescent green powder and brushed it across her eyelids, then followed that with blue and gold swirls. She brushed powdered gold across her cheekbones and dotted ruby red lip rouge across her lips, so that she looked like some exotic bird. Adam watched, fascinated.

     “Now me!”

     “Shhh, not so loud! Sit still; you're too wiggly.” Plumette dusted Adam's face with white powder, then painted his eyes in a blue-green-gold pattern, like the wings of a peacock. She put a little too much lip rouge on him, but that didn't matter, she could use it to blend spots into his cheeks. There.

     “What a handsome prince you are!” she said, showing him his reflection in the box's little hand mirror. “If only you had a wig, your father himself wouldn't recognize you!”

     “Can we get a wig?” Adam asked.

     “Um. No, I don't think so,” Plumette replied.

     “But I know where they are!” Adam cried, leaping out of his chair. “Cogsworth said they were all getting powdered, so they'll be downstairs.”

     “Oh dear,” said Plumette, but she let the tiny prince drag her through the halls to the little workshop where the staffs' wigs were sent to be cleaned and powdered.

     There sat everyone's wigs: Chapeau's tall one that looked like peaks of whipped cream, Cogsworth's old-fashioned one, and all the rest, all fluffy with washing and fresh powder. Adam fetched Chapeau's wig down and plumped it over his golden hair, giggling.

     “You take one, too!”

     Plumette cast around, looking for a wig she liked. Mrs. Potts said that she was too little for wigs, and that her curly black hair was too beautiful to be hidden away, but Plumette liked to fancy herself a grown-up lady, and couldn't wait to start dressing her hair. She selected a tall peaked wig with soft tendrils hanging down and put it onto her head. She preened a little, fluffing her nightdress out like a ballgown.

     “We look like two princesses at a ball!” she told Adam.

     He gave her his most affronted look. “I'm a prince!”

     “Well, you look like a princess in that nightgown! Come on, give me a twirl!”

     Giggling, they joined hands and did a pavane down the room, mixing up the steps and tripping over each other. Plumette swung Adam around and dipped him, causing the wig to tumble from his head, which sent the little prince into gales of laughter. The door opened.

     “Good heavens! Plumette! Prince Adam! What are you doing?”

     Plumette and Adam whirled about to face Chapeau, standing there in his dressing gown, a candle flickering in his hands. _Oops_.

     But Chapeau was smiling. “Ah, a midnight party. I see. How fine you both look, mon prince, mademoiselle. But it is late, and all parties must come to an end, no?”

     “We're wearing make-up!” Adam said, bounding across to Chapeau and trying to climb up into the footman's arms. “We found it!”

     Chapeau sighed, amused. “And Nanny Beatrice thought she had hidden it so well. Come along, both of you, it is time children sought their beds.”

     “Are we in trouble?” Plumette asked, hastening to pick Chapeau's wig up and set it back on its stand. She gave her own borrowed wig a farewell pat.

     “No, not if we get you cleaned up and back to bed before anyone else wakes,” Chapeau replied. “Come along, then.”

     And it was back to the kitchen, where Plumette put the make-up back in its box while Chapeau scrubbed Adam's face clean. Plumette's turn was next, Chapeau rinsing the soft cloth and wiping it over her face, removing any trace of contraband powder and rouge. He chuckled, seeing their downcast faces.

     “Come now, there'll be time enough for cosmetics when you're older,” he said. “And fancy eye make-up painted like wings, too. Come, Adam, let's tuck Plumette back into bed, and then I'll take you to your room.”

     Holding their hands, Chapeau took the children back to Plumette's room. She climbed into bed and Chapeau tucked her in, and Adam leaned down in the footman's arms to kiss her cheek.

     “Thanks for playing with me,” the little prince whispered.

     “I'll always play with you,” Plumette replied, sleepy and warm. “Good night, Adam, Chapeau.”

     “Good night, Plumette.”

     Mrs. Potts never did learn about the midnight escapade with the make-up, and neither Plumette nor Adam nor Chapeau ever told her.

 

Author's Note: If the opening of this doesn't remind you of a Certain Other Disney Movie, then I didn't do my job right. :-)

 

 


	5. My Family's Christmas: An Essay by Belle Durant

 

**My Family's Christmas:**

**An Essay by Belle Durant, age 8**

**For Mademoiselle d'Eleve's class**

 

     Christmas is a very special time for my family. Papa and I live at Madame and Monsieur Thierry's boarding house in the Rue de Boulangerie here in Versailles. Madame and Monsieur Thierry love Christmas very much and try to make it as festive as possible for everyone in the house. Since Papa is my only family, we join in as much as possible. I am going to tell you about how we spend Christmas, starting on the day before Christmas Eve and ending with Christmas Day.

     Every day, Papa wakes up at dawn and walks up to the palace, where he works as an artists. The King has ten thousand paintings, and all of them need to be looked after and kept beautiful, and besides that, there are always new things that need to be painted. Normally I get up, too, and go to school right after breakfast, but today, December twenty-third, is different. Today I go to the palace with Papa, to see the Christmas festivities. I wear my very best dress: it is dark green wool, and Madame Thierry helped me to embroider the hems with yellow thread that I got for a penny at the market. Madame Thierry brushes and braids my hair, and gives me a hot bun to eat while we walk, because it's not every day that I get to go to the castle. Maybe I'll even see the queen, she says! Papa chuckles and says “Maybe”.

     It's just getting light when we leave the boarding house and head towards the castle. There are farmers and tradesmen setting up for the Christmas Market and they wave at Papa and me as we go. It doesn't take us long to get to the palace gates. The gatekeepers know Papa, since he's there almost every day, and they wave us through. Then it's a long walk up the drive and through the gardens to the servants' entrance, where Papa and I go into the sitting room for the artisans. Papa shows me where to hang up my cloak, and brushes me off a little to make sure that I'm presentable. Then he picks up his box with all of his tools in it, and we head out into the kitchens.

     Versailles Palace is always in a tizzy. There are ten thousand people in it, all of them trying to get breakfast ready for the King and his courtiers. Plus there are hundreds of valets and maids trying to make tea and chocolate and coffee for their masters and mistresses, so that the kitchens seem to be filled with thousands of voices, each one yelling. I don't like the kitchens much. But Papa whisks me right through, out into the palace itself. He is allowed to roam it, because he helps take care of the paintings. It is still early, so no one important is up, and Papa takes me on a tour to show me all of the big rooms and the paintings in them, and the Christmas decorations. I think that the palace is very beautiful, all hung about with glass and mirrors and paintings, and draped with evergreens and ribbons for the season. There is a four hundred year old creche in the chapel, where the Virgin lies on a little bed while everyone else worships the baby Jesus, because she worked hard on making that baby and needs a rest. I wish that we had a creche.

     After that, the royals all wake up and Papa and I have to go to work. Papa has a workshop in the attic and we spend some time restoring the varnish on some old portraits, and touching up the faded colors in a couple of hunting scenes. I'm not allowed to help, since these are the King's paintings, but Papa wraps me up in a big smock so my dress won't get damaged, and I mix his paints. We do that until lunch time, which we have in the kitchens. Then Papa takes me on a walk through the palace, and we look at the royals having lunch. Anyone can do this, since royal meals are public. I think Papa looks very dashing with a sword in his belt, but I feel sorry for the people getting stared at while they're trying to eat their lunch. We don't see the King, but we do see the Queen! She has some visitors, including a very pretty lady who I think was a princess, and that lady's little boy. He's about my age and I noticed him because he had golden hair and he was telling his friends at the table a story. It was about dragons and fairies and a dashing hero, and I would have stayed to listen, only you're not allowed to do that. You're only allowed to stay in line and keep walking. It was a good story, too.

     After that, Papa is free to do whatever he likes, so we go look at the rest of the palace. But it is very full of people, and eventually we get tired and go home. I like Versailles Palace, but it must be exhausting to live there.

     On Christmas Even day, we help Madame and Monsieur Thierry make the house beautiful. I help Madame bake cakes and Christmas bread and all sorts of treats in the kitchen, and Papa and Monsieur hang up garlands so that the house smells like a pine forest. Madame has boxes full of tin baubles that she hangs on the garlands to dress them, and she lets me help her. When it's dark, Papa and I bundle up warm and go out to the Christmas market in the town center. I have been saving my pocket money for this since October. All of the lamps are lit, and there had hundreds of little stalls set up in the square in little winding streets. They sell things like oranges and nuts and ribbons and gloves and all sorts of pretty things. Papa and I visit one stall, where they are selling the music boxes that Papa makes. They only have one or two left, so Papa and I will be reasonably well-off for the next few months, which is nice. Then we wander on, and Papa buys us both a cup of hot mulled cider, and I spend some of my pocket money on beignets covered in sugar. I only have beignets at Christmas. They are hot and sweet with cinnamon and sugar, and I eat each one as slowly as I can, to make them last. There are people singing and playing music, and people dancing to the music, and a big creche in the center. We walk until we've seen the entire market, and then Papa takes me back to one of the stalls and buys us each a plate of soup and a roll, and we stand at the public tables and eat. I get chicken stew, while Papa prefers pea soup with bits of sausage in it. After eating we go back to some of the stalls, and I make Papa turn his back while I buy him his Christmas present. (I made him a Christmas present, too, but I didn't save my pocket money only for doughnuts!) Then we go home, because our feet and faces are too cold to stay outside anymore.

     At home, all of the boarders gather in the sitting room to sing carols. Madame Thierry plays the spinnet and we sing lots of songs. In dulci jubilo, O come o come Emmanuel, Il est ne le divin enfant, O come all ye faithful...we sing and sing until Cora, the maid, comes in to announce dinner. (We always have dinner before the Christmas Mass.) Dinner is everything that I helped Madame Thierry make earlier. We have roast chicken and potatoes and brussels sprouts and roasted vegetables and gravy. We have Christmas cake and sweet bread with jam and jam doughnuts. I eat everything, because it's all yummy and we won't get another big feast like this until Easter. Papa even lets me have a little wine, though he waters it down a lot.

     After dinner it's time for mass. We all get our coats and cloaks and hats on and walk through the streets to church together. Père Antoine meets us at the door, smiling Christmas greetings, and we all get quiet as we go inside. The church is beautiful, all decorated with thousands of candles and with Christmas garlands. It is a different kind of beautiful than Versailles Palace. I asked Papa for the word to describe it and he said it was majestic. We sit in our pew and listen to Père Antoine give a long sermon about peace and brotherly love, only I fall asleep, because it was a long day. Papa wakes me up for the singing, though, and carries me home afterwards and puts me to bed. I go right to sleep.

     In the morning, when I wake up, my stockings have been filled by Père Noel. Inside of them are a little bag of almonds and walnuts and hazelnuts, an orange, a few coins, two peppermint sticks, and a little box of chocolates containing four truffles, which I've never had before. He also gave me two sets of hair ribbons: one red, one pink. Père Noel is very thoughtful and kind.

     Papa helps me to get dressed in my best green dress again, and braids my hair for me. I tie my new red ribbons to the ends and we go down for Christmas breakfast. Madame Thierry's Christmas breakfast is always good: she cooks a big fish that sits in the middle of the table, and we all take bits of it. There are platters of meat and cheese cutlets, and baskets of sweet rolls, and pots of jam, and jugs of coffee and hot milk. There are two different kinds of pate, and lots of cheese, and tasty little mousses that Madame bought at the Christmas market. I eat until I am stuffed silly. We don't always eat like this; only at Christmas, and only because Madame raises the rent in December so that we can afford the feast.

     There are presents at every place setting. I gave everyone at the boarding house (that's eight people, including Papa and me) a handkerchief that I embroidered with their initials. Madame Thierry declares hers too pretty to use and kiss me, and Monsieur Marchand says that he's never known an eight year old to embroider so well. I gave Papa a knitted scarf, which I made in red wool, and a picture that I painted. It's of a windmill, since I know that he and Mama used to live in one, and he misses her. Oh, and I gave him a pair of nice gloves that I bought at the Christmas market the night before. Papa gave me two whole books! They are not new, but they are wonderful. One is a collections of Stories From Shakespeare, which we will read together, and the other is a book of maps, so that I can look at the world from my bedroom. That brings my personal library up to five books. I am very happy.

     There are other presents, too, from the other boarders: more hair ribbons, three pencils, a new copy book for school, a new dress for my dolly, and a pair of blue wooly mittens. It's a lot more than I expected, and I am very happy.

     We spend a long time at the table, eating and laughing and talking, and then Papa and I get dressed and go for a walk. It is nice to walk after all that food! We go all the way to the palace, and walk in the gardens that are open to the public. I wonder if the King and Queen are having a happy Christmas, and that pretty princess and her little boy with the big imagination, too.

     Later, Papa splashes out and rents us both a pair of ice skates, and we go skating on the pond outside the town. I fall down a lot, but we have a lot of fun. Then home for a quiet lunch, and I read my books, and Papa has a nap. In the evening, we all gather in the sitting room and sing more carols, and tell each other stories. I love Christmas; it's such a lovely holiday. Tomorrow everything will be back to normal, but for right now, it's all magic.

     Merry Christmas!

 

 

Author's Note: This one isn't castle-centric, but I got the prompt on Tumblr and liked this little story so much that I decided to post it here anyway. Please let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!

 


	6. In dulci jubilo

 

**In dulci jubilo**

 

     It was snowing, great feathery white flakes falling from the sky like someone had upended a pot of sugar. The castle gardens and surrounding forest were rapidly disappearing under soft powder, bare limbs and evergreens covered in ice. It was December, six months after the curse had broken, and Adam leaned against the library's cold window, watching the garden disappear under the falling snow.

     It was different, this snowfall, than the ones that had happened during the curse. Agathe's curse, which they had lived under for years and years and years, trapped in eternal winter, only to emerge into bright summer sunshine and the realization that only fifteen months had passed in the outside world. That winter had been bone-achingly cold, unyielding in its intensity, the stuff of nightmares. Adam had dreaded the snow's return all autumn, as the trees had turned orange and gold and the air began to nip at cheeks and noses. And now here it was, all soft blue-silver-white falling on the bare winter trees, and there was nothing nightmarish about it. Adam couldn't believe how beautiful it was.

     Outside, he could see Chip throwing snowballs with some of the castle children: orphaned boys and girls whom Belle and Mrs. Potts had offered a home and a place to learn a trade, as Plumette once had, many years ago. There were five of them, bright splotches of color against the snow, and they filled the castle with noise and merriment long missing. It had surprised Adam, when they first came, how much he liked having the place full of them. There were three boys in training to be footmen, and two girls whom Madame de Garderobe was teaching the basics of couture, all of them fully integrated into the castle family. Adam grinned, watching them play with Chip. Before, he would never have even considered such a thing as taking on orphans. But that was one of the many good things about Belle.

     Six months, and so much had changed for the better in Adam's life. No more hiding behind aloofness and arrogance. No more of the formless rage against himself and others that had consumed Adam's youth. No more lies about not needing anyone. No more selfish overspending and hiking of taxes to maintain a hedonist lifestyle. _Do we really need it_ , Belle always asked, and more often than not, Adam could answer _no_. Before the curse, before Belle, Adam had rarely allowed himself to look outward, to see how his actions affected his people. Now it gave him immense joy to look at them, to help them. Six months, and the taxes had been lowered, schools had been opened, debts had been forgiven. There were new hospitals being built in two of his towns, and Belle had created scholarships for aspiring students, so that they would have more doctors, more engineers, more artists and writers and teachers. _Goodness is a choice that we make every day_ , Belle had said to him the night of the wolves, and Adam had decided to make that choice, day in and day out.

     “Penny for them?”

     In the window's reflection Adam saw Belle round the corner of his little bay. He smiled at his wife.

     “I was just thinking how beautiful the snow is.”

     Belle came to put her arms about his waist, and kissed his shoulder through his jacket. “You're not upset by it, then?”

     Adam shook his head. All fall, the thought of winter had made his chest feel tight, but now that it was here, he was calm. “It's not the same kind of winter. There's hope now, and joy, and laughter. See the children outside?”

     Belle stood on her toes to look out over his shoulder. “Mrs. Potts has a vat of chocolate warming in the kitchen. We should go get some before they drink it all.”

     “They'll be wanting Christmas,” Adam said.

     “Well, of course,” Belle replied. “Won't we all?”

     Adam thought of the Christmases of his past, spent here at the castle and at the homes of others aristocrats. The joyous Christmases of his childhood, the subdued festivities spent with his father, the debauched free-for-alls spent at Versailles, where wine flowed freely and he had taken a different woman to bed every night. A world where he had been surrounded by people, and utterly alone.

     “Why the hesitation?” Belle asked.

     “I'm not sure I know how to celebrate Christmas, not really,” Adam admitted. “After my mother died, we celebrated it more out of duty than any real pleasure. It made me sad, because she loved the holiday and my father hated it. Even at court, one likes to spend time with one's own family, and when you haven't got a family to turn to...”

     Belle squeezed him. “What were your Christmases like, then?”

     Grand, and cold. Greenery brought indoors, feasts every night, concerts given by hired musicians, mass on Christmas day. Elegant balls and Christmas parties where everyone was a friend to the face and an enemy behind the back. Adam sighed as he related it to Belle.

     “I always envied the staff,” he said, “because they seemed to truly enjoy the holiday. They had a big dinner in the kitchens, with presents and carols and lots of games and merrymaking. I never joined them, but it all seemed like such fun.”

     “Well,” Belle said. “We'll just have to have a proper Christmas this year, that's all.”

     Adam turned from the window. “A _proper_ Christmas?”

     “What, you think Papa and I went to court at Christmas, and to balls and parties with endless wine and fireworks? Good heavens, no.” Belle chuckled, remembering. “We always had good, homely Christmases, wherever we were. Now that we're here, we'll adapt.”

     “Tell me,” Adam begged, and Belle smiled wider.

     “I'd rather show you,” she said.

     Adam, intrigued, agreed.

     The snow did not stop falling for two days. In that time, Belle hauled Adam, Lumiere, Plumette, and Chip up to the attic to find the long-abandoned Christmas decorations. There were boxes and boxes of them, filled with expensive glass baubles and tin trinkets, enough to create a fairyland light and color. Belle set Chip and the children to polishing them, keeping them well supplied with cookies and cocoa as they worked. So far, all familiar, Adam thought, though of course he had never served a group of servant children hot chocolate in his own dining room, nor had anyone ever before cheered when he entered a room.

     On the first clear day, Belle and Maurice led Adam out into the grounds to cut holly and ivy for decorations. Gardeners tramped after them with a pony and cart, amused and secretly happy to see their prince taking part in such an activity. It was hot, messy work to cut down enough branches and boughs to fill the cart, but once Maurice showed Adam how to properly hold an ax, the task became easier. It pleased him to be able to contribute in such a way.

     Then home, where Mrs. Potts met them at the door with hot mulled cider, and where Lumiere and Cogsworth spent the rest of the afternoon companionably bickering over the placement of the greenery and each of the polished ornaments. Belle left them to it, taking Adam's arm in her's.

     “Come,” she said in an undertone. “These decorations are for the castle. What's upstairs is for us.”

     Maurice, holding an armful of greenery, caught Adam's eye and winked. They led him to the West Wing, where Belle had expanded Adam's rooms into a self-contained apartment by dint of taking over the suite of rooms adjacent to his and knocking a door into the wall between them. Belle had cleared a space in the little sitting room, dusting the mantle piece and bookshelves to ready them for decoration. Mrs. Potts was there, and Chip and his friends ran back and forth with armfuls of greenery, laughing and shouting and singing carols. Adam watched in amusement and growing delight as Belle and Maurice dressed the room, tying red ribbons to the evergreen boughs, and weaving sprigs of holly and ivy through them into a fine garland. Then Maurice brought forward a wooden packing case which opened to reveal the decorations the Durant family had spent years collecting. There were finely painted wooden baubles tied with string, tissue paper garlands, tiny figures made of painted tin: angels and stars and saints.

     “Are these yours?” Chip asked, taking the words from Adam's mouth. “They're so pretty!”

     “Put them on the garland,” Maurice directed. “Wherever you think they fit. There is no right or wrong here. Adam, come, don't stand about staring.”

     Adam grinned; he had never really been involved in decorating anything since he was a little boy. It pleased him to take part in this tradition, and the room looked splendid when they had finished with it, full of simple homemade garlands. It was a far cry from anything he would have had before, and it surprised Adam how much he preferred it to the grandiose décor of the past.

     “Now what?” he asked.

     “Belle usually makes ten thousand cookies,” Maurice replied. “And any number of cakes and Christmas breads.”

     “Our landlady in Versailles, Madame Thierry, taught me how to bake,” Belle said. “Usually we gave the cookies away to the poor and those who wouldn't have much of a Christmas without it.”

     “We'll eat your cookies,” Chip said. “But Prince Adam doesn't know how to bake.”

     Adam grinned across at him. “Prince Adam can learn.”

     Never before had Adam spent such a pleasant December. There was work to be done, overseeing the overhaul of many of his towns' infrastructure and the general governance of the province, but afterwards there were always friendly gatherings beside the fire, whether in the front hall, the library, or the apartment upstairs. Adam learned to bake that December, shortbread and gingerbread and dainty sugar cookies, strong concoctions of oatmeal and raisin, honey and orange peel. There were always carols being sung in the kitchens, and more and more they reached the outer halls, as Belle encouraged the others to not confine their revelry to the kitchen.

     “He's missed this, you know,” she said to Plumette one day, as they stood in the larder watching Adam and one of the orphan girls cutting out gingerbread men. “This sense of belonging.”

     “I know,” Plumette said, regret in her dark eyes. “He was never allowed to join us after Maria-Eleanor died, and by the time he was grown, we had all long since stopped inviting him.”

     “Small wonder that he was always angry.”

     Plumette gave Belle a sad smile. “We'd have never noticed it, either, before the Enchantress came. That's the thought that keeps coming back to me, whenever I see our Adam laughing. You were the only one who ever tried to get past his defences.”

     Belle smiled.

     At last it was Christmas Eve. The preparations were complete; the castle wore its winter finery with pride and delight, all greenery and glass and gilt, and music rang in the halls. Chip and the orphan children had taken to making up rude variations of carols that sent them into gales of laughter, and Lumiere was not quite trying to rein them in. Cogsworth caught Plumette under the mistletoe and kissed her cheek, and Maurice had closeted himself away for hours, working on gifts. They all had. And now here was the day. He awoke that morning to lightly falling snow and an almost overpowering sense of excitement.

     “I feel like a child,” he said to Belle as they dressed. “I almost can't wait for tonight.”

     For Christmas Eve in France was the most important part of the festivities, and if all went according to plan, the night would be fabulous. Adam dressed in the new suit Madame de Garderobe had made him, all in deep green with a white waistcoat. Belle was also in green, with a crown of holly in her hair.

     “And look!” she said, pointing. “Someone's put mistletoe in here.”

     “Oh dear,” Adam said, following her gaze. “You realize this means I have to kiss you.”

     “You'd better,” Belle replied, and laughed when Adam scooped her up and pinned her to the wall.

     Later, they all piled into the castle sleighs and rode into Villeneuve, to visit the Christmas market there. Adam had never bothered to go, preferring to spend his more adult Christmases in Paris or Versailles, so it was a lovely surprise to see how festive the village looked in its Christmas finery. Lumiere and Plumette made a beeline towards Madame Chapeau's millinery, while Cogsworth and Maurice wandered off together, arguing about chess moves. Belle, still a trifle resentful of the people of Villeneuve for their actions towards her and her family the previous summer, put her arm through Adam's and pressed close to him. Adam squeezed her arm. Forgiveness, he knew, took time.

     But the villagers were more than polite, wishing them both a happy Christmas wherever they went.

     “God bless you, Prince Adam,” more than one said to him, and Adam, blushing, thanked them.

     “I didn't do anything,” he protested to Belle in an undertone.

     She squeezed his arm. “Yes, you have.”

     They wandered through the market, buying packets of roasted chestnuts and tiny fried doughnuts to eat, stopping for mulled wine at one stand, admiring the wares at others. Belle bought some pots of jam and honey, a bottle of elderflower wine, some knitted mittens. Adam bought half the wares at the stand selling toys-well, he had palace children to provide for now. They stayed until darkness began to fall, listening to street musicians and watching the world go by.

     Dinner was almost ready when they returned to the castle, laden down with packages. Where once Adam would have taken his Christmas dinner surrounded by the sons and daughters of the aristocracy, now the entire household turned out in their finest clothing, gathering around the huge dining room table. There was Cogsworth in a dashing red coat, and Chapeau with holly in his button hole, and Mr. and Mrs. Potts holding hands under the table. There were Lumiere and Plumette, not quite canoodling, Maestro Cadenza gazing in adoration at Madame de Garderobe, Chip and the palace children vibrating with repressed excitement. And here were Belle and Maurice, sitting on either side of Adam. His family, all of them, laughing and talking and cheering as Cuisinier brought in every course.

     There was hot clear broth with a cheesy crouton in it, green vegetables drenched in salted butter, roasted root vegetables, an enormous roast goose with crackly skin and succulent meat. There was cheese, and Christmas breads, and three different cakes for dessert. There was wine and coffee and tea, aperitifs and brandy. And there were Christmas crackers, ordered from England by Cogsworth, each containing a paper crown and a toy of some sort. Adam found himself wearing a crown of bright pink tissue paper, and not minding at all when the others laughed at him. There were jokes in the crackers, too, and a riotous good time was had by all.

     Then it was back to the sleighs, to go to church for midnight mass. Père Robert had dressed the chapel in holly and ivy and greenery, and festooned it in white candles. Each member of the congregation was given a lit taper, and the choir sang, and Père Robert read out the Christmas story and preached about hope, and love, and human kindness. Adam sat with his hand in Belle's, and felt somehow complete. He had never before felt so complete. All those long years where he had been lost and alone and cursed. They were worth it, if they led him to this moment, here with these people.

     “It's never felt right to me before, Christmas,” he murmured as they left the church after the service.

     “You've not celebrated it with family,” Maurice replied, putting a hand on Adam's shoulder. “Not like this.”

     “You're right,” Adam said. He smiled at his father in law. “Thank you, Maurice, Belle. For all of this.”

     Maurice smiled. “It's not Christmas Day, yet, my lad. Thank us tomorrow.”

     Tomorrow, Christmas Day. Tomorrow there would be stockings for everyone, and gifts (Adam had particularly enjoyed buying everyone gifts, the more extravagant the better). There would be a long, leisurely breakfast of cinnamon bread and oranges and coffee, there would be a noontime carol service, there would be the castle Christmas party for all of the villages. There would be music and country dances and laughter and song. There would be family, _his_ family, and there would be joy. But all of that was tomorrow. Tonight he had Belle on one arm and Maurice on the other, and there was Chip asleep in Monsieur John's arms, and Chapeau carrying the littlest palace girl, and Plumette lending her arm to one of the older boys as they made their way back to the sleighs. There were the villagers, wishing them Merry Christmas with joy and genuine kindness in their faces. For now, this was enough. It was more than enough. It was funny, how much better everything was now that he had opened his heart, now that he let himself love and be loved. _I will honor Christmas in my heart_ , Adam thought, _and try to keep it all the year_.

     Goodness is a choice, but oh, the joy it brought. Adam swung Belle into the sleigh and tucked himself in beside her.

     “Let's go home.”

 

 

 Author's Note: Merry Christmas to all those who celebrate it! I wrote this story for the BATB fandom holiday gift exchange on tumblr, where my Secret Santa was @acciopirate. I'd like to share it with all of you, too. I hope you like it!

 

 


	7. A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

 

**A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning**

 

_“As virtuous men pass mildly away,_   
_And whisper to their souls to go,_   
_Whilst some of their sad friends do say_   
_The breath goes now, and some say, No”_

John Donne

 

     Dr. Henry Vane stood in the northern wing of the library, hands behind his back, awaiting his new pupil. It was a quiet early fall morning, the sky stretching away over the woods in a pure, unblemished blue, the air crisp and cool. A good day for riding, and it wouldn't have surprised Vane at all to learn that Prince Adam had gone out with his horse. Not that he'd blame the boy. Vane smiled to himself.

     He had arrived two days previously, late at night, after a long trip out of Oxford. It had been raining; he had been tired, and had gone to bed rather than meet his royal employer, who had, anyway, long retired to bed with his mistress. Vane was a doctor of philosophy from Oxford; he had no particular fear of the legendary snobbery of the Prince de Courcy. Better to rest and recuperate. Mr. Cogsworth had shown Vane to his small suite of rooms near the library, and a young black woman who introduced herself as Plumette had brought him dinner on a tray. Vane had slept well, breakfasted with the servants, and spent the intervening hours unpacking his belongings and organizing his books. The Prince did not summon him until the evening, but Vane had been given to understand that he was an arrogant man who preferred to let people await his pleasure, and did not worry.

     “He's not prone to kindness,” Lord Tristan Streatfield, father of a former pupil who facilitated Vane's appointment, had said. “Not to his son, not to his servants.”

     Lady Efra, Lord Tristan's mother and the mother-in-law of the aforementioned prince, had been more frank. “Francois is the nastiest man I've ever had the misfortune to meet, and I fear what he has done to the boy since my Maria-Eleanor died. I beg you, my dear doctor, not to let his arrogance prevent you from looking after my grandson.”

     For young Prince Adam's well-being was at the heart of his English relatives' placement of Vane at the castle.

     So Vane waited until the footman, Lumiere, brought a summons from Monsieur le Prince. They met just before dinner, in the great drawing room that the Prince used when he wanted to convey an impression of intimate grandeur. Vane was armored in full academicals- scarlet gown lined with blue silk and his doctors' square cap over a a finely tailored black wool suit-in the view that princes tended to think that their wealth and power outranked his own as a doctor of philosophy. Vane, after two decades in academia, did not consider himself anyone's subordinate, especially not the Prince de Courcy's.

     De Courcy himself was waiting for Vane, resplendent in embroidered green velvet, his dark wig curled in the height of baroque fashion. He held an oak walking stick and the faintest hint of a cynical sneer. In the midst of the lackeys and guests that filled the room, Monsieur le Prince stood apart. His son was nowhere to be seen.

     “Welcome, Dr. Vane,” Monsieur le Prince said, nodding. He bowed to few beyond the King. “Welcome to the Chateau de Courcy. I trust you find yourself comfortable?”

     “Monsieur le Prince,” Vane bowed back. “Very much so, I thank you. You have a beautiful home.”

     “Indeed, we spare no expense,” Monsieur le Prince replied, pleased that Vane had noticed. “Lumiere, where is my son?”

     Lumiere, whose shining spirits could not be hid behind his footman's livery, stepped forward and bowed. “Prince Adam is dressing for dinner, your highness, and will be with you shortly.”

     Monsieur le Prince snorted. “Pray that he is not late. You will find, Doctor, that my son has many disappointing habits. I hope you'll be able to cure him of many of them.”

     Vane had heard much of Prince Adam from the staff. Sixteen years old, rich as Croesus, beautiful as the dawn, though he had yet to fully grow into his features. Very fashionable, a great student of _la mode_ , with a growing interest in art and music-this from Lumiere and Plumette. A burgeoning gourmand, according to Monsieur Cuisinier. A true prince, Cogsworth had said privately, holding himself aloof more and more as he grew. A young man with a kind heart, even if he didn't show it much, Mrs. Potts had said.

     Vane knew Prince's Adam's English family of old, and wondered how much of the mother's influence had lasted after her death.

     Not much, he thought, when Prince Adam finally sauntered into the great drawing room. The boy was dressed for dinner in an exquisite taupe satin suit embellished with gold lace and embroidery, his golden hair held back with a ribbon. He went to stand by his father-out of range, Vane noticed, of the man's walking stick.

     “You're late, Adam.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “Do you enjoy inconveniencing me? I won't tolerate it, Adam.”

     “No, sir.”

     “See that it doesn't happen again.” Monsieur le Prince waved a hand at Vane. “This is Doctor Henry Vane, your new tutor.”

     Prince Adam looked at Vane for the first time, his blue eyes sweeping over his academic dress with some interest. He bowed. “From Oxford, yes? Welcome, Doctor.”

     “Prince Adam.” Vane bowed back, nonplussed by how much Adam resembled Lady Efra and, presumably, her daughter. “Yes, I am a fellow of New College, Oxford. I hope to impart to you some of my knowledge.”

     Monsieur le Prince chuckled. “I do hope you'll succeed, Doctor. Adam's last tutor gave him up in disgust. He has Latin but no Greek, and only a basic understanding of mathematics. For a young man who reads, he's really quite obtuse. I hope you won't be disappointed.”

     Adam looked stricken by his father's criticism. Vane's heart went out to him rather.

     “I'm sure Prince Adam and I will get along perfectly well,” he said, and addressed himself to the boy. “I took the liberty of looking over some of your work, your grace, and was quite pleased with it. There is, of course, ground for improvement, but such is the role of the student, what?”

     Adam did not smile, but his eyes lightened, and Vane noted it as a small victory.

     It was the same all through dinner. Despite the courtiers' conversation around them, the Prince de Courcy always managed to circle back to his son, seeming to take perverse pleasure in tearing him down. Vane soon saw that it was impossible for the son to please his father. There was not a thing that Prince Adam did that his father did not find fault with, though his manners were beautiful and his conversation intelligent. It was, Vane thought, rather like watching a duel wherein one swordsman, having the advantage, toyed with his opponent with no hint of mercy or remorse. It was exhausting to watch, and impossible to mediate.

     How Prince Adam would do away from his father, in the privacy of lessons, was something Vane was keen to find out.

     Vane looked around at the clock on the library mantle. Five minutes past nine o'clock in the morning. Was the young prince habitually tardy, or was it a measure of defiance against an overbearing father? Nine-ten. Nine-fifteen. The library door opened, and Prince Adam walked it and let it drift shut behind him.

     “Good morning, my prince,” Vane said, nodding at him.

     “Good morning, Doctor.” Prince Adam looked defiant and wary.

     “Join me,” Vane invited, waving at the table. “Lovely morning, isn't it? Almost too beautiful to spend inside.”

     Prince Adam was not, it seemed, willing to make small talk, or to smile. He bobbed his head. “I was riding. My horse threw a shoe and I had to walk him back.”

     As excuses went, it was plausible, even probable. “No matter,” Vane said. “We have all morning. Now tell me, what have you studied with your previous tutor, Monsieur...Brugge, was it? What did he teach you?”

     Adam made a face. “Latin, some mathematics, French grammar and rhetoric, some literature and history.”

     “And which subjects did you prefer?”

     Adam looked at him for a long moment, as though wondering if this were some sort of trap. “I prefer literature. Stories, poetry, plays. Sentimental nonsense, Brugge said.”

     “Brugge was a fool, then,” Vane said. “Sentimental nonsense, indeed! Some of history's finest minds are poets and playwrights!”

     The ghost of a smile passed over Adam's face. “Which do you like, then?”

     Vane sat back, considering both the question and the prince's challenging tone. “Shakespeare, of course, Thomas Malory, Christopher Marlowe, Aphra Behn, the lays of Marie de France...even your French poets, Racine, Moliere, and of course the _philosophes_. But John Donne is my especial favorite, and the focus of my personal studies.”

     Something changed in Prince Adam's face. He smiled.

“As virtuous men pass mildly away,  
And whisper to their souls to go,  
Whilst some of their sad friends do say  
The breath goes now, and some say, No:

So let us melt, and make no noise,  
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;  
‘Twere profanation of our joys  
To tell the laity our love.”

  


     The words poured out of the prince, soft and round and in unaccented English. Vane listened in increasing astonishment.

     “I was not aware that you speak English, your grace,” he said, when the prince had finished.

     Adam gave the tiniest of smiles. “My mother was English; I learned it from her almost before I learned French. And half the core staff are English. I try to keep it up.”

     “Then I shall speak in English with you,” Vane said. “Come, sit down. We have much to discuss.”

     The young prince sat. “My father is intent upon me receiving the best education possible, sir. I have some hope of being allowed to study at university one day. You come from Oxford. Will you show me how to get there?”

     “Of course I will, but I warn you now, the work is rigorous and I will accept neither slackness nor tardiness.” Vane had worked with too many young lords to have patience with their antics. “If you can dedicate yourself to your studies and work hard, I see no reason why we will not succeed in getting you to university.”

     Adam considered the words, and nodded. “You heard my father last night. I am not the best of students. But I will try, Dr. Vane. You have my word.”

     And three years passed.

  


*

     Prince Adam was a diligent student, if an ofttimes erratic one. Life at the Prince de Courcy's court was a taut and sometimes insensible world of etiquette, parties, and hunts, each more elaborate than the last. Twice a year, the Monsieur le Prince and Adam went up to Versailles to attend the King, uprooting most of the household for months on end in the process. And there were continual guests and parties, both at the de Courcy chateau and at others, so that life was one round of movement and hurry, with very little time for a person to sit and relax. Vane found it annoying, both for himself and for his student.

     For Prince Adam was, he soon realized, more the sort who would more enjoy spending an evening in the library with a book than he would attending yet another whist party. Yet the boy did not seem to understand this about himself, or rather, he did not let himself understand it. Prince Adam had everything he could possibly want, Vane knew-expensive books, clothing that was the height of fashion, all the food that he could possibly eat. There was nothing that the young prince wanted for, except for the one thing that was deliberately withheld from him, and that was his father's love and affection.

     The Prince de Courcy did not value literature, the stories that were so dear to his son, and he did not value quiet contemplation, or friendship, or human kindness. And so he rained down scorn on Adam.

     “Philosophy, Adam,” he grumbled. “History, mathematics, the natural sciences. What prince has need for childish entertainment like plays?”

     Vane would assign Adam to translate Shakespeare and Marlowe into French, in retaliation. Adam's translations were sometimes rough, but always passionate. Indeed, thwarting the Prince de Courcy became something of a game to Vane, one that Prince Adam secretly loved.

     “A scholar never seals himself off to a subject at this stage of his education,” Vane told him. “The best students read widely and without discrimination.”

     Vane did not envy Adam his life. It was a cold, loveless world that the young prince lived in, one where every word had to be carefully considered before it was uttered. The Prince his father was a harsh and demanding master, and Adam was desperate for his love and approval. Occasionally it would be given, if the young prince was complimented by others for his wit, his dancing, his mastery of Latin or mathematics or philosophy. Then the Prince de Courcy bestowed his approval, and for days Adam would glow with a quiet joy. Adam had friends among the courtiers, too, but they were less friendships of the heart than meetings between the sons of noble families, all of them using each other for whatever they could get. There were women, too, brought in to service the Prince de Courcy and his son, and Vane watched in increasing worry as Adam developed a carnal appetite, which his father only encouraged. A poisonous environment, Vane thought, and one that could only bring ruin to his charge.

     And so he made the library a sanctuary, a place of quiet and respite where Adam could take pleasure in his growing academic prowess. Where the Prince de Courcy belittled his son's lack of knowledge, Vane offered new subjects of interest. Where the Prince tore at Adam's confidence, Vane praised. Where the Prince derided Adam for original thought, Vane challenged.

     “Come, come, I know you can do better,” he often said after reading a less-than-thoughtful essay. “Try again, Prince Adam.”

     And though he never said it, Adam found Vane a balm to his bruised soul. Vane was a calm, easy-going individual who commanded respect, and who never sought to make Adam feel anything less than capable. He was the first tutor that Adam had ever had who made him feel so. Vane listened, and offered comfort and advice as necessary. He listened when Adam came to him, asking questions Father would have deemed stupid. He listened when Adam was frantic that he would disappoint Father again. Vane believed in Adam, believed he could be a good prince and a good student. He cared, and Adam, in the process of closing his heart off against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, loved Vane as much as he dared.

     But a tutor was not a father, and there was little that Vane could do to stop the flood of abuse that the Prince de Courcy leveled at Adam.

     The end came inauspiciously enough. Vane had assigned Adam a text to read, Aphra Behn's _Oroonoko_ , the story of an African prince sold into slavery. That gross crime against a people was thankfully coming to an end, thanks to an accord drawn up between the King of France and the English parliament banning the practice, but it was never too late, in Vane's opinion, to let his pupil form strong opinions on a contentious subject. Adam, reading it, was outraged.

     “In a different world, it could have been _me_ sold into slavery!” he howled, smacking his hand on the table for emphasis. “It could have been Plumette!”

     “Indeed,” Vane said. “When mankind chooses to enslave each other, there can be no peace, only cruelty and death and destruction.”

     “It's disgusting,” Adam snarled. “I've heard of the sugar plantations; they worked people to death and bought new ones to replace them. I'm _glad_ the King forbade it!”

     “Even if it means curtailing the powers of the rich?”

     “Even so,” Adam said. He did not often think of the people below him, or how their lives paid for his pleasure, but the book had struck a resounding chord within him.

     The subject fretted at him all afternoon, though he was careful to maintain a facade of peace. Adam's chest felt tight, as it always did when something upset him. Usually he was able to make himself forget, whether by focusing on something else or by entertaining himself, but Vane had set him an essay on the text (for Behn had been threefold in her cleverness, and written not only on the plight of the African prince, but on the lands in which he found himself, and the plight of noblewomen unable to help him) and there was nothing to distract Adam from the horror, so recent in living memory, of slavery.

     “You are agitated tonight, Adam,” Monsieur le Prince said at dinner.

     “Not so very,” Adam replied, toying with his wine glass. It was a small affair tonight, dinner, with only ten or so guests attending them. He was seated at his father's left side, across from Madame de Minuit, the Prince's mistress. She gave him a small smile, which Adam ignored. “I have read an interesting book, one which has made me think. Father, we were never involved in the slave trade, were we?”

     Silence. Monsieur le Prince put down his wine glass, just filled by Lumiere, and fixed Adam with a dangerous stare. His heart skipped a beat.

     “What book have you been reading, Adam?”

     Adam swallowed. “ _Oroonoko_ , a travel narrative that touches on the slave trade.”

     “And _why_ did you read this?” Behind the Prince, Lumiere gave Adam a warning look.

     Across the table, Vane spoke up. “Because I assigned it to him, your highness. Aphra Behn was a prolific playwright and novelist-”

     “It does not matter how prolific a writer is if she writes about obscene subjects,” the Prince de Courcy cut in. “There are some subjects that ought not to be touched on, doctor, and the trade is one of those things. Damn sentimental fools wishing to meddle in others' business! I'll see you in my study after dinner, Vane.”

     Adam, white faced, stared down the table at his tutor. Vane gave him a small smile and a slight head shake. They both knew what this meant.

     After dinner, it was not Vane who repaired immediately to the Prince de Courcy's study, but Adam.

     “I beg you, Father, do not send him away,” the young prince said, closing the door behind him. “He's the best tutor I ever had-”

     “Adam, it is not for you to get involved with my affairs,” Monsieur le Prince said. “I won't have Vane teaching you about heathens.”

     “They aren't heathens, Father,” Adam protested. “They are people like you and me.”

     The Prince's eyebrows raised. “Few people are like you and me, Adam. It would behoove you to remember that.”

     Adam drew himself up, trying to breathe around the panic in his chest. Panic at confronting his father, panic at losing Vane. “People like you and me have a duty of care to those beneath us. Even the King-”

     “You are not the King, Adam. Nor are you a scholar, or even so intelligent as the Doctor leads you to believe you are. You know nothing of the world, of your place in it.” The Prince de Courcy's eyes were cold, his voice flat. Adam realized with a sickening lurch that he was furious. “I had thought that you had learned your place, but I see that I was wrong. A prince does not concern himself with those beneath him.”

     “He _does_ , though!” Adam cried.

     “He does not!” roared the Prince. “I was inclined to merely tell Vane off, but now I will see that he has to go! I won't have you thinking such weak thoughts! If I hear of this again, you'll be punished. Now get out of here! _Go!_ ”

     Adam opened his mouth, and closed it. Monsieur le Prince's face was white with outrage; there would be no arguing with him now. With a great effort, Adam turned to the door.

     “Stop.” The Prince was on his feet. “You think to leave me without proper obeisance?”

     Adam turned, glaring. For a moment, father and son faced off.

     “Incline your head to me,” the Prince snarled. Adam stood still, staring at him. The Prince stormed around the table in a rage. “Bow to me, damn it!”

     Adam swallowed. “Let Vane stay here.”

     “Bow to me,” the Prince replied, “or I'll see you don't eat for three days.”

 _I hate you_. Tears of rage pricked at Adam's eyes. He nodded at his father; it was the best he could do.

     “Get out,” snarled Monsieur le Prince.

     Adam left, and slammed the door behind him. Halfway up the passage he met Vane, striding towards the Prince's study.

     “Doctor! I tried, I'm sorry-”

     Vane caught him by the arms. “My dear prince, it's all right. You have done nothing wrong and I am proud of you. Remember that.” He gave Adam a slight shake. “Go on now, and have courage.”

     Adam stood and watched his tutor vanish into the Prince's study.

     “Doctor Vane,” he heard Monsieur le Prince say before the door closed, “I am appalled by what you are teaching my son-”

     The door closed. Adam debated with himself for a moment, then ran back up the passage on silent feet and pressed himself to the door, trying to listen over the pounding of his heart.

     “I've only been teaching him what any young gentleman approaching university age would learn,” Vane replied. “Behn's Oroonoko is a standard work-”

     “The devil take your standard works!” the Prince shouted. “Adam is not bound for university! He is a prince of the blood and has a career at court to attend to!”

     “Oh yes? A career of drinking and debauching and pampering sycophants? I should think you would want him to learn, Your Highness! Prince Adam has received an expensive education at your own behest.”

     “But I have not paid you to fill his head with affairs that do not concern him!”

     “What, like slavery? Is not a prince bound by a duty of care to his people?”

     “Our people are not slaves, and even if they were, they do not concern Adam! The people have their own town leaders to look after them; they live on our lands and are subject to our whims, and Adam must accept that! I will not have you teaching him otherwise. And so, Doctor, I tell you now to pack your bags and return to England immediately.”

     There was a long silence; Adam imagined that Vane was staring at Monsieur le Prince in distaste.

     “You are ruining that boy,” Vane said at last, his voice cold. “A prince must be raised to be a leader and an example, not an impudent peacock with unlimited credit and a taste for obscenity.”

     “I beg your pardon?” Monsieur le Prince snarled, and Adam's stomach turned to ice.

     “You heard me well enough,” Vane said.

     “Don't you _dare_ try to tell me how to raise my son!”

     “Someone needs to; you are making such a hash of it,” Vane snapped. “He's a good lad! He needs encouragement and loving-kindness, not the senseless abuse you heap on him! He's in danger of becoming a monster!”

     Something shattered against the door, probably a paperweight, and Adam turned and fled. He did not want to hear Vane being beaten.

*

     Not that Vane was beaten. He was a Doctor of Philosophy, after all, and even Francois de Courcy did not quite have the courage to hit him. Vane returned to his rooms smarting from insult and outrage, and rang for Lumiere and Cogsworth. They came, with Chapeau, and silently helped Vane to start packing. Regret was written in all their faces.

     “It was almost time for me to return to Oxford, anyway,” Vane said. “My Warden had written to ask if I could resume duties in the new term.”

     “You are lucky to have a place to go,” Lumiere said, fitting Vane's books neatly into a packing case.

     “And of course I will write you an excellent recommendation,” Cogsworth said.

     “It's the boy I'm worried about,”Vane said. “You'll look after him, won't you?”

     “We do our best,” Cogsworth said.

     Vane was tempted to say that their best wasn't good enough; that they didn't do nearly enough to rein Adam in, but he also knew that there was only so much that servants of their status could do, and held his tongue. Just because he was upset was no reason to lash out at his friends.

     Instead, Vane took a book from his collection, and sat down at his desk. For a while he wrote, then folded and sealed the paper, slipped it into the book, and handed the whole lot to Chapeau.

     “Will you give this to Prince Adam?” he asked. “Not a word to the Prince, now.”

     Chapeau smiled. “Of course, sir, it would be my pleasure.”

     “Thank you, Emile.”

*

 

     Adam was standing at the window when Chapeau came into his room, gazing out at the innumerable stars. He wiped his eyes as the older man approached, unwilling to let anybody know that he had been crying.

     “What do you want?”

     “I have something for you from Doctor Vane.”

     Chapeau handed him the book. Adam took it and opened the cover, to see Vane's letter addressed to him, and the title page: _A Compendium of English Poetry_ , printed in Oxford and bound in fine cognac calfskin.

     “He's really going, then?”

     “Yes, sir, he leaves in the morning. Lumiere, Cogsworth and I are helping him pack.”

     Adam stared at the book; for a moment the words blurred on the page.

     “Prince Adam? Are you all right?”

     Adam looked up at Chapeau, suddenly furious with grief and hurt. “No, I am not all right! Why would I be all right? Everyone leaves me; no one cares! Go away and leave me alone!”

     Chapeau looked stricken, and Adam's heart contracted at the look on his valet's face. He turned away, and when he turned back, Chapeau had gone. Adam took as deep a breath as he could muster, and opened Vane's letter.

_"My dear Prince Adam,_

_So now I must leave you, but it is not without intense regret. Teaching you these three years has been a joy and a pleasure. I have seen you grow into a fine young man, and with courage and kindness I have every belief that you will do your people proud. Do not let fear and anger fester inside of you, my dear prince. Remember what Polonius told Laertes: above all, to thine own self be true. Be true to yourself, Prince Adam. Do not let yourself be led astray. Keep up with your reading; education is everything. Do not be afraid to think for yourself._

_I leave you this poetry compendium as a token of my good will and friendship. I am returning to Oxford on the morrow, and should you ever have need of me, a letter to New College will find me. I wish you all the very best in the world, my dear Prince Adam._

_Yours very sincerely,_

_Henry Vane.”_

 

     To your own self be true. Didn't Vane know that was impossible? Didn't he know that the Prince de Courcy would never stand for it? He was going, the one person who cared about him. Soon he would be just another memory, as were his memories of camaraderie with the core staff, and the golden days when his mother was still alive. Everyone always left. Adam sat down, put his face in his hands, and cried.

*

     Vane left the next morning, in a fine misty drizzle. His travel bags were packed; his heavy luggage would be sent on to Oxford by Cogsworth. Mrs. Potts packed him a basket of food to eat on the journey, and there were small gifts from the rest of the staff in his bags and boxes. Vane embraced them all, and went to climb into the carriage that would take him, over the next few days, to the port in Calais. He tossed his bag inside, and turned to look up at the castle one last time. It was barely dawn.

     Prince Adam stood in a window facing out into the courtyard, his face white and somber as he looked down on his favorite tutor. Vane looked up at him, his heart breaking for the boy. Then he put his hand to his heart and bowed. _Godspeed, my prince_. Adam mirrored the gesture, his mouth a thin line of regret. He raised his hand and put it to the window. _Goodbye, my doctor_.

     Vane entered the carriage and sat down. The door closed behind him, the horses were whipped up, and soon the Chateau de Courcy was lost in the mist as he turned his sights to England, and Oxford.

     Prince Adam stood in the window, watching, until long after the carriage had been lost in the fog. He felt as though he were falling, now that the one person who had kept him anchored was gone. And he couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe. He gripped the poetry compendium in both hands and tried to imagine a future he could not see.

 

 

 

Author's Note: Obviously I've played fast and loose with the dates of slavery here; I like to think that in whatever AU universe BATB takes place in, it is one where slavery as an institution did not last very long, and so it is in my 'verse. I think it goes without saying that the Prince de Courcy probably had business in that direction, though; probably a sugar plantation or two. As always, thank you for reading, and please let me know what you think in the comments!

 


	8. Now Go We In Content

 

**Now Go We In Content**

 

     “Is there anybody here?”

     The voice was low, and plaintive, and belonged to Prince Adam. Cogsworth lowered his newspaper and stood, leaning out of his private chamber into the corridor of the servants' wing. The young prince stood at the top of the corridor, one hand holding his side. He looked rumpled, an unusual look for him, his dark green riding jacket smeared with dirt.

     “How can I be of assistance, your highness?” Cogsworth asked, stepping into the hall. He was in his shirtsleeves, but if Prince Adam required assistance, there was no time to grab his jacket.

     “Where is everyone?” the prince asked.

     “Villeneuve, I expect,” Cogsworth replied. “It's Mrs. Potts's day off. Chapeau's, too. Lumiere is upstairs somewhere. How may I assist you?”

     Adam limped forward and removed his hand from his side. Cogsworth saw that he has unbuttoned his waistcoat, and that blood dotted his shirt. “My horse threw me; I've managed to hurt myself. I need hot water and a poultice. Chapeau isn't here to help.”

     Cogsworth was surprised; Adam rarely came below stairs anymore. But he didn't say anything. “Yes, of course. Come into the sitting room and I'll fetch something.”

     “Monsieur le Prince mustn't know,” Adam said, following Cogsworth into the servants' sitting room and allowing himself to be helped out of his jacket and waistcoat. “He thinks Achille is wild; this would only convince him.”

     The skin on the prince's left side was rapidly bruising, and a long gash slanted upwards. Cogsworth winced.

     “It must have been quite a fall,” he remarked.

     Adam grimaced. “I managed not to impale myself on a thorn bush, that's all. Only a few sticks got me.”

     “Well, it's easily fixed. Wait here, your grace.”

     Cogsworth fetched hot water, a poultice, and a few cloths from Cuisinier in the kitchen, and went back to his prince. Adam sat stiffly, looking around the little sitting room. His face was impassive, though Cogsworth could see some emotion in his blue eyes. Poor Prince Adam, he thought, locked up behind his cold walls. Cogsworth knew that Adam did it to protect himself from the Prince de Courcy's barbs, but it was still hard to see. Adam had been colder than ever since Dr. Vane was dismissed.

     “Hold your arm up, mon prince; that's it.”

     Cogsworth cleaned the scratches and patted the poultice across them. He pressed a clean cloth against the gash and wound a length of linen bandage around Adam's waist, to keep it in place. Young men could get into such trouble. Cogsworth remembered one such young man, long ago in London, with snapping dark eyes and a love of life so great that his death had come as a horrible shock. Cogsworth sighed.

     “Is it so bad?” Adam asked.

     “Not at all. I was just...thinking of the past.”

     “Of England?” Adam said.

     “Well, yes.”

     “Are you going to go back, then?”

     Cogsworth blinked. “Why on earth would I go back to England?”

     Adam shrugged. “It's your home, isn't it?”

 _Home_. Such a strange concept. England had not been home since the laughing young man with the snapping dark eyes had died, killed in a duel on Hampstead Heath, since his cousin Maria-Eleanor had rescued him from his grief with the offer of a job in her new French home.

     “This castle has been my home for more than twenty years,” Cogsworth replied. “Ever since I came here with your mother. Where on earth would I go, if I left here?”

     Something flashed behind Adam's blue eyes. “And you would stay here in spite of everything?”

     Cogsworth was puzzled by the question, but he supposed he knew what the prince meant. Life here grew more and more fraught as the older Prince de Courcy descended into tyranny and paranoia. It was deeply unpleasant working for the man; Monsieur le Prince bullied and threatened everyone, tolerated mistakes less and less every day, and seemed convinced that someone-though who, exactly, remained unclear-was out to hurt him. Several members of staff, including three footmen and a pastry chef, had left the Prince's service of their own volition.

     “It is not so bad as all that,” he replied, tying the bandage off. “Monsieur le Prince needs the castle to run just so; it would do you all a disservice for me to leave. Besides, I like it here.”

     “Do you?”

     “Indeed. My family is all here.”

     Adam's eyebrows rose. “Your family? Is there a wife and children I do not know of?”

     Cogsworth chuckled at that. “No, not family like that. Not all family need be blood relatives, Prince Adam.”

     “Then who-?”

     “Well, Plumette has sat atop my heart since the day she arrived here.” Cogsworth remembered the tiny, worn child, a refugee of the last great Parisian plague, with her big dark eyes and desperate need of care. Looking after her had begun to ease the pain in Cogsworth's heart, grief that had endured since the fight on Hampstead Heath. “That fool Lumiere, of course, and Beatrice and her Jean. Chapeau, Cuisinier. Those of us who have been here since the beginning, since your dear mother came here.”

     Adam stood, tucking his shirt back in, and let Cogsworth help him back into his waistcoat. “I thought your disliked Lumiere.”

     “A man can consider another a melodramatic fool and still like him greatly,” Cogsworth replied, doing up Adam's buttons. “Just because one doesn't share mannerisms with another does not mean that they cannot be brothers in arms. That is not how affection works. Family, neither.”

     Adam's lips twitched. “So I am to understand that my father will not run you off?

     “Indeed,” Cogsworth said, finishing the last button. “There, you'll do. Give me your jacket and I'll see that it's washed.”

     Adam handed over the soiled jacket. He hesitated. “I am glad,” he said at last. “This castle would fall apart without you, Cogsworth.”

     Cogsworth smiled. “It certainly would. Get on with you, now, Prince Adam, and don't worry. None of us are going anywhere.”

     Adam did not smile-he didn't, anymore-but his eyes were light. “Very good. Send some tea up to my study, if you'd be so kind.”

     Cogsworth nodded, and went off to deposit the jacket in the laundry and call for Plumette. He hoped that Adam had understood what he meant, when he called the castle his home, its denizens his family. Words were not Cogsworth's forte.

     But Adam, sitting alone in his study, drinking tea and rubbing his aching side, understood that they would not leave him, and was comforted.

 

 

Author's Note: chapter title from Shakespeare. Thanks for reading! Please let me know how you liked it!

 


End file.
